


Two and a Half Men (with a baby)

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rise of Empire Era - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Chronic Pain, Drug Withdrawal, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, Unintentional Redemption, alternate title: piett is suffering, everyone learns the magical power of friendship and not regularly committing homicide, the most implausible fix-it fic that has ever graced this fine website
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-07-22 04:37:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7420057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long day of bargaining with Hutts and attempting to ignore his past, Darth Vader is nearing the end of his rope. When he discovers his two-year-old son, it's the straw that breaks the semi-rational Sith Lord's back; in a rash act worthy of the Skywalker name, he scoops his son into his arms, steals a shuttle from his own fleet, and punches in random hyperspace coordinates to a destination on the other side of the galaxy.</p><p>Unfortunately, father and son are not the only ones on the ship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Darth Vader Had One Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because you have ideas, Vader, doesn't mean those ideas are _good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I'm actually writing this, oh my god. For those of you who don't follow me, A) you make good life choices, and B) this all started because of a dumb Tumblr post I made in a hotel room. Don't be like me, kids. A lot of this is going to look at realism, nod a little, and then swerve in the opposite direction. 
> 
> To be clear, the, "abusive relationships," tag applies specifically to Palpatine and Vader. As this is - inevitably, because I'm weak trash - a redemption story, I do actually have to deal with Palpatine. Unfortunately. And the other nasty tags - well, uh, Obi-Wan and Vader lead very terrible, horrible lives. And being stranded on a ship happens to not be conducive to those lives.
> 
> Also, I know a lot of people were probably expecting this to start off with Vader finding Luke, so I've included an exact summary of Vader's thoughts as he kidnaps his son, for your viewing pleasure: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

His heart thundered.

 

It raged even as Vader boarded (stole) a Lambda-class shuttle, even as the Force curled around the controls and guided the ship into space. The pacemaker on his suit whined, a high keen, but Vader ignored it in favor of punching in hyperspace coordinates.

 

Vader paid no mind to the numbers he entered. His thoughts were already consumed with more pressing matters, like the sunlight sweep of the Force, the sweltering wastes, the shadow of his mother's grave. Tatooine was far below them, and the great, terrible maw of space swallowed them whole, but the ghosts of the twin suns were still burned into his eyelids: ghosts.

 

His heart continued to roar. It had been a long time since it had stuttered in fear like this. His blood pounded, and the mangled fleshy quarter of his lung squeezed, shooting pain through deadened nerves.

 

He had been sent to negotiate Imperial occupation with Jabba the Hutt; surely, his Master had seen it as a sort of christening. A testing of the waters. _You are the trash in the gutter_ _._   _You were born_ _on_ _dust and wind._ _The desert has nothing to offer but waste,_ it said. _Never forget_. And Vader had knelt, as he always did, and obeyed, as he always did.

 

Then destiny had intervened. The stars had come through for him.

 

His discovery at the Lars abode had not been luck. It had been the will of the Force, showing him, guiding him, even after it had abandoned him on the banks of Mustafar's lava flows - at long last, the Force had returned to him. After two lonely years, it arose with a blessing written in the web of the galaxy itself: his son.

 

The second he had seen the child, he'd known. From a mile away, the feeling of the morning suns washed over him, the smell of warm leather filled his senses, an unshakable warmth ignited in his core; a Force presence, unlike any other. On some instinct, Vader's muscles had relaxed, and his eyes had drifted closed inside the dark mask - it was so painfully close to the real feeling of light that he could have stayed there forever, basking on the fringes of this beautiful sun in the Force.

 

Originally, he'd thought that they had missed yet another Force sensitive child born on Tatooine. He'd sought out the source of the light to destroy it, as he always did with wondrous things. But the disturbance had led him to the Larses, past his mother's grave, and into the very room where Padmé Amidala had once comforted a young Jedi padawan. The Force had thrummed, _sire and child_ , as Vader's eyes had raked over a sleeping baby; father and son united, as it should have always been, as it would _always_ be.

 

He'd pulled Luke into his arms and stole him back from the Larses, and now they rested in a shuttle Vader had stolen from his own fleet - _admittedly_ , a rash decision, but necessary. The child would need the protection only he could provide. His son belonged with him.

 

For the Larses, he would come back, and they would look on him in fear and agony; they would pay the retribution for theft. He'd cleave them in two and leave them for the bonegnawers and the urusai. 

 

But, for now, his eyes were for his son alone.

 

_Destiny_ , Vader thought, as he stared down at the squalling child. He was holding _destiny_. His son, by his side, and his, by his son's; bound together, like strings in rope.

 

His pulse thundered in his ears. If his hands were flesh, they’d be shaking. If he wasn’t half durasteel, he’d have been moving around anxiously, like a tornado in a bottle. Anakin Skywalker had always been filled with nervous energy, but a hundred pounds of metal had weighed it down.

 

(His Master had lied to him. They had _all_ lied to him.)

 

In his arms, red-faced and furious, sat Luke Skywalker. The sound of his screaming – even distorted through the helmet – tore at Vader's mangled heart.

 

Vader stilled. The breath might have caught in his throat, around the tubing. As it was, breath after breath was forced through the metal grate, cruelly.

 

A deep, rotting memory crawled out of the back of his mind; his mother, the midwife, swaddling newborns in the cleanest rags available, before handing them off to him - _support the head, Ani, and rock like the morning breeze._  He remembered the weight of a toddler pressed into his shoulder, terrified for her life as a Master came down on her mother.

 

Back then, it'd been like holding a star, right in his arms. Small, fragile, but with thundering hearts and strong lungs; true children of the desert. (A niggling thought: _just_   _like you.)_ He had long since forgone those days, and everything he'd stood for back then, but the memory still burned. The tingling of his fingers as he held this new child, now, was just another burn scar; but all scars had their uses.

 

He re-settled Luke in his arms, until he cradled the child, and then he swayed. Luke was not a newborn, but Vader's arms were broad enough to engulf him, and he was loathe to press Luke to the durasteel shoulder armor; so, he laid Luke in his arms instead.

 

Rocking was a strange feeling. It pulled oddly at the socket of his prosthetics, but not in a way that would tear the callouses off. The warm weight pressed against his biceps – the feeling of a breathing body so close to him – had feeling rushing to his nerve endings. It was so sudden, and so foreign, that it was painful, but it was a pain entirely separate from his desolation. Queer, indeed.

 

Strangest of all was Luke's Force presence. It was so bright; he could barely feel the world around him through the light. This was what stars felt like, what suns were made of, and Vader could scarcely imagine that he - a merciless murderer of children - would be lucky enough to experience _this._

 

The waves of distress slowly abated as Vader rocked him. _So naïve_ , he thought. How many children – even younger than this – had he slaughtered? How many had he destroyed, ripped from life, to save the one he held now?

 

Vader’s heart shuddered beneath his sternum, and then gave a rapid series of thuds. The monitor on his suit beeped angrily.

 

Luke, now only hiccuping, whipped his head around. He reached down to fiddle with the control panel, chubby fingers fumbling.

 

“That is not a good idea,” Vader rumbled, shifting so Luke was sitting on his forearm and the panel was out of reach. His mother must have once carried him on her hip the way Vader held Luke now, and the thought hit him like a blow.

 

Luke turned his head upward, eyes brilliant, widened in curiosity. Luke reached up to pat the respirator’s grate in interest.

 

It felt like someone punched Vader in the stomach – or, rather, the heart.

 

Luke grabbed one of the screws on the bottom of the respirator, working his small fingers around it. Once he got a good enough grip, he jerked at it; Vader’s head swiveled with the movement. Luke eyed the movement in interest, but then he brought up both hands and patted the jutting cheeks of the mask. The sound of Luke's small hands resounded oddly inside the helmet.

 

“I hope you are enjoying yourself.” Vader said. Luke only clambered higher, until he was standing on Vader’s forearms and working his fingers beneath the hood of the mask. Distantly, Vader worried that the fool child would lose his balance and injure himself.

 

“It will not come off, young one, no matter how hard you try,” Vader said. The position left Vader blind and open to attack, but something stopped him from reigning the child in. It might have been lump in his throat.

 

Luke moved to explore the eye lenses, leaving oily fingerprints. Eventually, he lost interest in the mask, and flopped back into Vader’s arms with a huff. The pauldron caught his eye, and he braced his hands over the burning metal. Luke slapped it, like one would a drum, and the metal rang dully.

 

“I am glad you are enjoying this, child,” said Vader, with a harsh edge of sarcasm. Luke jumped, and looked Vader straight in the mask, as if he had forgotten that Vader could speak.

 

“Hi,” said Luke, waving excitedly. It seemed, after he’d done enough exploring, he’d decided Vader was worthy of words.

 

Vader’s stomach flipped. Inexplicably, he wished that he could look on Luke’s face without the red film of the optical sensors. To see the exact color of his hair and eyes. He wished, deeply, that he could feel the warmth of Luke's skin; but the cybernetics remained cold, and unfeeling, and harsh.

 

But it would have to do; it had to. For  _both_ of them.

 

The mechanized monstrosity that counted as a chuckle rustled through the vocoder, but Luke didn’t flinch in fear. Anyone else would have, Vader knew. It was a disgusting, chilling sound, half of a screaming droid and half organic. As a Sith Lord, Vader had no need of laughter, and the suit disposed of it as best as it could.

 

But Luke had proven to be a fearless child.

 

“Hello,” said Vader. His voice was loud – too loud.

 

Luke waved again, slower this time. As Vader’s heart shook again, the pacemaker complained, this time with a warning light. Luke was distracting by the blinking red glow.

 

As if of its own will, his hand came up, and pressed against Luke’s back, steadying the child. He would never be able to feel his son's warmth through his hands, but if he closed his eyes, he could imagine how his angel used to feel, and imagine how her son would radiate with warmth. Someday, it would be enough.

 

Unconsciously, he pulled Luke closer to him. It would have to be.

 

“Release him.”

 

Vader startled. He crushed Luke to his chest and pulled out his lightsaber, whirling to face Obi-Wan; the child grabbed the edge of the shoulder armor in surprise.

 

_You were a fool thinking it would be that easy,_ Vader snarled to himself. He’d been so drowned in Luke’s overwhelming Force presence that he’d forgotten to be vigilant. An idiotic move, coming from a seasoned soldier.

 

But not one that would cripple him. Not this time.

 

“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Vader thundered, “At last.”

 

It was admirable, Vader had to admit, that Obi-Wan had maneuvered through the Imperial fleet to stow away on Vader's shuttle. _Impressive_ , even, but that would not save the traitorous Jedi scoundrel now. Vengeance was at hand.

 

The Dark Side thrummed, not in Vader's fingers, but in his chest. He allowed himself a slow, cruel smile that tore at his skin.

 

Obi-Wan’s eyes were on Luke, wide and worried. The Force fizzled with it, and Vader felt the loss of his son's calm glow keenly. “Let him go, Vader.”

 

“You hid him from me,” Vader growled. The words came out sharp and harsh from the vocabulator, but they were not the words Vader had intended to say at all. There were much older grievances there. “My son.”

 

From the side, there was a soft, startled gasp. Vader whirled, and was shocked to find Lieutenant Piett, with a rumpled uniform and harried expression.

 

_It would seem I am in store for all manner of surprises today_ , Vader grumbled to himself.

 

Vader backed away to keep them both in his line of sight. Betrayal and panic thrummed in his metal bones. _Not again._ “I never would have picked you, Lieutenant, to consort with a Jedi."

 

Piett looked fearful, and the man's hands shook. "My Lord, I - "

 

“You are overly paranoid, Sith. He tried to stop me,” said Obi-Wan, stepping forward. His shoulders shook. “And you will give me the boy.”

 

_“You do not own him!”_ Vader snarled. His voice was so loud the vocabulator had a hard time translating it, and the words came out muffled by static and electronic buffering. Anger - cold, cold, he was always so _cold_ \- swept through him.

 

“You lost the right to him-! ” shouted Obi-Wan, his expression twisting in pain. The sentence broke like a glass window. “You lost that right when you _destroyed_ Anakin Skywalker!"

 

The Force rippled with Kenobi's desperation, and Vader caught a snippet of _‘-not again-’_ before the Jedi shuttered his mind away behind steel walls. The bitter aftertaste of being cut out tasted metallic and earthy: sharp.

 

Obi-Wan’s face curled into a snarl. " _You_ have lost all claim to a Skywalker child."

 

_Even the best of Jedi are laid low by rage,_ Vader thought, staring at the cruel slant Obi-Wan's face had taken. _Even the best._

 

“How many Skywalkers will you destroy, Kenobi?” Vader rumbled. It was quietly said, but had an impact like a fist to the gut.

 

Obi-Wan flinched backward, eyes wide and furious. Vader stepped forward. “He belongs with me. I will kill you, and he will be mine – “

 

“Remember what happened the last time you promised my destruction?” Obi-Wan spat.

 

_\- the fire is loud and hungry, and it roars, it takes and it takes and it takes, and it rends your_ mistake _\- burning and twisting and melting -_

 

Vader roared – a beastly noise that came through the vocoder as spare static. In the background, Luke’s cries bounced off of the metal walls of the shuttle.

 

He will set this shuttle on fire and watch as Obi-Wan Kenobi burned. Perhaps, he will even lament how much he used to _love_ that _traitor_ as Obi-Wan's flesh curled into ash, as his eyes screamed in pain, as everything from the inside of his lungs to his eardrums melted. He will sing his Master's praises as he curls to dust, as his screams bound against the walls, and Vader will say, "You were everything to me, Obi-Wan. I loved you."

 

And then Kenobi will learn the _meaning_ of pain. Then the wretched deserter would know.

 

“Perhaps, ah –“ Piett began, quietly, “My Lord, the – ah – child… “

 

He will lock Kenobi away, in chains, in durasteel - it will be a prison. He will destroy the Master for all he has wrought, for every time he dared to entertain the thought that Obi-Wan might have cared; for every time he forgot what  _Master_ meant.

 

“I am the Master now,” Vader snarled. “I will destroy you, Kenobi. Your failure is complete.”

 

Obi-Wan’s eyes flashed. “Perhaps I have not destroyed enough Skywalkers."

 

Vader roared again, this time louder, more ballistic. _You will not come near my son, or I will pull your spine out through your throat_ \- and his lightsaber shot forward until a frustrated voice screamed, “STOP!”

 

Vader's lightsaber halted in mid-flight. Vader retreated, staring at the small, defiant child in his arms. Luke reached up and angrily slapped Vader over the respirator grate.

 

“Is mean!” Luke declared. Across the room, Piett gulped.

 

Vader stared at the child – something like shock, or admiration, or pride sinking into his chest as deeply as the control panel he was dependent on. The world held its breath.

 

Luke turned to Obi-Wan. “Say sowwy,” he commanded.

 

Obi-Wan sputtered. “He – you –"

 

Warmth spread through Vader’s chest. _He is brave already_ , Vader thought. _My child._ The Dark Side tucked its tail and retreated from Vader's side, chased away.

 

“Sowwy!” Luke demanded. His tiny hands balled into fists, his little nose scrunched up, and the toddler folded his arms.

 

Behind the mask, Vader entertained a grin. Obi-Wan stared him dead in the eyes, snapped, “Sorry,” and then crossed his arms.

 

Luke shook his finger at Obi-Wan. “Is mean!”

 

Obi-Wan then went very red in the face.

 

Luke wriggled in Vader’s arms, and then leaned back so he could look up at Vader’s mask. “Say sowwy,” Luke said.

 

Vader stuttered, shocked. “Young one – “

 

“Sowwy,” Luke ordered.

 

_He has his mother in him_ , Vader thought, with a petulant huff and a stab of grief.

 

“My deepest apologies, my former Master,” Vader said, with as much sarcasm as he could manage through the vocoder. Obi-Wan glared.

 

To the right, Lieutenant Piett choked.

 

Vader turned towards him. “Lieutenant, are you functional?”

 

Piett coughed, thumped his chest, and shook his head. “Uh, er... I am fine, my Lord.”

 

Vader knew this was a lie; Piett’s shock was ringing in the Force like someone had rung a bell. But it was of no matter to him.

 

Vader turned back to Obi-Wan, put off by his son's interference, but slavering for the chance to sink claws into Kenobi's heart and force him to _say the words_ , and he will tear away at his pound of flesh until he gets them.

 

But Piett's alarm was ringing through the Force.

 

"Lieutenant," Vader ground out, "does there seem to be an issue?"

 

There was silence over the passenger hold of the shuttle, and then Piett shifted, steeled his resolve, and spoke: "Uh... my Lord, permission to speak freely?"

 

Vader, somewhat surprised, nodded.

 

"It would seem, that, uh, the hyperspace coordinates that were entered were... far. It will take nearly two weeks to reach our destination, given that we are not interrupted," said Piett, "The _Lambda_ shuttle cannot be taken out of hyperspace without, er, combustion. Unless anyone would... appreciate the smell of rotting bodies, murdering each other is - ah - not a very agreeable option, sirs." The admiral looked nervously between the two.

 

Dead silence.

 

"Quite frankly," Piett said, fiddling with the end of his sleeve, "we are trapped."

 

Obi-Wan slumped into one of the passenger bucket seats, holding his head. "This will not do. This will not do _at all."_

  
  
And as implausible as it was, Vader was inclined to agree with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never, ever written for Star Wars before, and I must say that it's exhausting. I had to research that stupid Lambda shuttle. For plot reasons, this particular shuttle is going to be extremely well-stocked, because it was landing down on Tatooine and apparently everyone thought over-packing was a good idea, just in case they got lost. Don't think about it. Just let it _happen._
> 
> This was also kind of difficult, because I'm so used to thinking about Vader as he is in the OT trilogy - but this is in the early days. He's just a baby Vader. (A Vaderling.) So, of course, I feel like his emotions are going to be much rawer, and he's going to be more rash, because he's not as deep into the, "Everything is terrible and I care about jack shit," philosophy as he is in ANH. Same with Obi-Wan, really. Piett's just suffering.
> 
> Then again, I am new to Star Wars. So feedback is appreciated! And, the style of this fic calls for random awkward bonding scenarios - because the ultimate goal is redemption and significantly less murdering - so if you have a particular scene you've always wanted to see, I can work it in. Because, if I'm going to be writing, "everyone deals with their issues by virtue of being stuck on the same ship," dammit, I'm going _hard._
> 
> Thanks for reading! ;)


	2. Lieutenant Piett Actively Seeks the Cold Embrace of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vader and Obi-Wan cannot keep their shit together for a collective five minutes, and Piett is forced to bear witness. He _might_ survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm slow! What happened was that, when I wrote the first chapter, I ended up smashing most of what happened in the second chapter there. So I ended up very confused. The version you guys are receiving is nowhere near as refined or as good as I would like it to be, but I'm honestly tired of looking at it. So it's not really good, or very good at all, but I can at least say I put 2,000 words into it. Don't be like me, kids.
> 
> I'll just warn you know that I didn't study the characterization very hard. I didn't go hard like I did on the first chapter, when I was liberally panicking. This time, I'm gonna rock out with my cock out. And also I'll never say that phrase again after this date I am so sorry.

The shuttle was cold. Piett failed to suppress a violent shiver.

 

He’d heard rumors that Lord Vader’s presence lowered the temperature of the room he’d walked in, but he’d always dismissed them. As removed from humanity as Lord Vader was, he couldn’t freeze the very air he breathed.

 

Piett had been very, very wrong.

 

Lord Vader stalked the length of the ship, cloak snapping at his heels. The child in his arms giggled every so often, when Vader took a particularly long step.

 

That baby was the bravest person Piett had ever met.

 

There was no other sound save for Vader’s raspy breathing and the hard thunk of his boots on steel. Piett held his breath.

 

It was hard to believe his eyes, but he’d never had reason to believe they were liars before. Darth Vader, the Dragon of the Empire, the Emperor’s Fist was cradling a child. The child laughed in enjoyment, not crazed fear, and climbed all over Lord Vader like he was a jungle gym with homicidal tendencies.

 

Piett had heard the rumors. “Vader threw three TIEs across the hangar,” wasn’t an uncommon sentiment when you worked with his personal squadron; every time the staff rotated, new stories drifted up; _a creature of faulty wires_ , they said, _the sword of the Empire._

 

The hands that held that child now could break six inches of transparisteel, catch propeller blades, crumple flesh and durasteel in turn. They stopped everything from blaster bolts to heartbeats.

 

And they held that child like a delicate piece of glass.

 

 “Will you stop that!?” the Jedi snapped, sitting up from his chair.

 

Vader stopped, looked down at Obi-Wan, and then began to pace faster and louder than before.

 

_Is this honestly happening? Do my eyes deceive me?_ Piett thought. _Is Lord Vader in petty rebellion?_

 

Perhaps it shouldn’t be so shocking. Vader had been known to engage in sarcasm, from time to time.

 

“M-my Lord,” Piett stammered, cursing his weakness, “perhaps we should… discuss our _situation.”_

 

“What situation, Lieutenant?” Vader said, stopping in front of Piett.

 

Oh, _honestly._

 

Piett leaned away from the looming presence. “Just what we should do about food and water, my lord.”

 

Vader inclined his head. “This ship was originally tasked with serving the new governor of this system. Every ship landing with a high authority figure is stocked to feed a full crew for two weeks on standard ration packets, specifically shuttles landing on aggressive planets such as Tatooine. We shall have more than enough, Lieutenant.”

 

Piett swallowed. “Thank you, my Lord.”

 

His eyes skittered to the Jedi. The man’s brow creased, his throat swallowed, and an impertinent fire lit in his eyes. Mentally, Piett prayed, _don’t do it, please don’t do it –_

 

 “Can you even eat a standard ration packet, Vader?”

 

Piett sighed.

 

Vader stiffened, and then turned to face the Jedi. The temperature plummeted, frost crawling across the steel. He raised his hand, and Obi-Wan slammed into the durasteel wall. The child shrieked in Vader’s arms.

 

It was a bit like watching a speeder crash in slow motion.

 

“Why,” snarled Vader, “don’t _I_ show you how it feels, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Tell me, how much do you value your legs, anyway?”

 

“More than you valued yours, clearly,” Obi-Wan said, as he tried to fight the invisible hands pressing against his neck. “Or you wouldn’t have – “

 

“ENOUGH!” Vader bellowed, and he jerked his hand, slamming Obi-Wan against the wall that blocked off the cockpit.

 

The child in Vader’s arms squirmed and dropped to the floor, toddling over to where Piett cowered beside the row of bucket seats.

 

The child pulled on his pants leg. “Uppy,” he demanded.

 

_This is not happening_ , Piett thought.

 

“I, uh,” Piett said, dumbly. “My lord – “

 

The child pulled on Piett’s pants leg harder. “Uppy! Uppy!”

 

“Do it, Piett,” said Vader. Piett looked up; Vader still stood facing Obi-Wan, but the mask had turned just the barest inch. Piett felt a cold fire burning through him.

 

He picked up the child, eyeing Vader as he did. It seemed the galaxy was out to get him killed by his superior.

 

He settled the child awkwardly in his arms. The boy tapped his nose and laughed. Piett wrinkled his nose; the ghost of the child’s warm hand stayed with him, like the beat of a butterfly’s wings.

 

“Er, hello,” Piett greeted, softly, with as much respect as he could manage.

 

“Hello!” the boy said, waving excitedly. The child’s whole _being_ seemed to brighten with happiness.

 

The boy turned to Vader – his father, by the stars – and waved.

 

Piett watched, astonished, as Vader waved back. The movement was slow and careful; unsure.

 

_This is impossible. This is not happening_ , Piett hoped. _I am not holding Lord Vader’s son, in front of him, where he can exercise latent paternal abilities._

 

“Hello,” the boy repeated.

 

“Hello, Luke,” said Vader. It sounded – soft.

 

Surely, this had to be a dream.

 

Luke wrapped his arms around Piett’s neck, burying his face into Piett’s collarbone, as if he had contracted a case of shyness. Piett could scarcely breathe through his amazement.

 

And, if he was being honest, a little bit of awe; he’d never had a child take to him like this.

 

Vader seemed to think that he and Luke were having far too much fun, because he strode over and plucked Luke out of Piett’s arms.

 

“I will be taking him,” said Vader. Piett didn’t miss the way he pillowed Luke in his arms, and turned away so Piett could barely catch sight of a single blond hair.

 

It was almost protective. Dear stars _almighty._

 

Obi-Wan was watching the scene unfold in unadulterated shock. “He is… a kind child. _Too_ kind.”

 

“Do not speak of him, Kenobi,” Vader snarled. Luke slapped him over the triangular respirator, and Piett stifled a laugh at the last second.

 

“He does not share your sentiment,” Obi-Wan said, smugly.

 

“Hello!” Luke said, waving at the Jedi.

 

Vader gently pushed Luke’s arm down. “Do not greet him.”

 

“He’s two. He can’t understand you.”

 

“If you do not shut your mouth, I will tear it off,” Vader snapped.

 

Obi-Wan raised his eyebrows. “Oh, how the tables have turned.”

 

That wasn’t a quip Piett understood, but the sudden wave of bitter ice that tore through him was overwhelming.

 

Vader made a beastly, chilling sound and turned back to pacing. His movements were erratic and sharp, and Luke didn’t seem to be enjoying it quite as much.

 

Piett could scarcely think around all of the tension. It was almost like something out of a holodrama.

 

Luke tried to get out of Vader’s arms, but Vader held fast. The boy fell into the crook of Vader’s elbow with a frustrated cry.

 

“Put him down,” Obi-Wan demanded. His bloodshot eyes were narrowed in concern.

 

Vader whipped to face the Jedi. “So you can take him from me!?”

 

That escalated rather quick. It might have made the record for the shortest amount of time Vader burned through the wick of his dynamite temper.

 

“To _where!?”_ Obi-Wan shouted, hysterical. “Where am I going to go? Where would I take him, Vader? Look around! We’re _stuck!”_

 

“You have no one to blame but yourself,” growled Vader. “If you had not – “

 

“If you had not betrayed us all, we wouldn’t _be here,”_ interrupted Obi-Wan, fists clenched. “But you _did._ Stop focusing on the past.”

 

Vader stood very, very still, and the shuttle began to shake. “If the Jedi hadn’t betrayed the Republic – “

 

“You betrayed the Republic!” Obi-Wan screeched. “You’re the only traitor I see, _Darth!”_

 

_“YOU LEFT ME TO BURN!”_ Vader shrieked. It was a shriek – an ungainly, awful noise of desperation and fear.

 

Piett reeled; that wasn’t something you would say to someone who was simply against your beliefs. That was a personal admission, meaning that this Jedi had done the one thing no one else could: _hurt_ Lord Vader.

 

A novel concept, nigh impossible. But Vader’s pacing looked more like _caged animal_ , Vader’s rage looked more like _bluff_ , and the darkness in Obi-Wan’s eyes looked more like _guilt_.

 

Luke slid out of Vader’s arms and scrambled over to Piett, fat tears rolling down his face. Piett obliged him, and picked him up.

 

Vader pushed Obi-Wan against the wall, one huge hand wrapped around his throat. Obi-Wan gasped for breath. “What is wrong, Master? _Can’t breathe?”_

 

Piett swallowed. Vader’s breath bounded off the walls.

 

Obi-Wan wheezed, weakly clawing at Vader’s fingers. Vader pressed harder. “How much do you value your limbs? Your _painless_ existence?"

 

The mask was only inches from Obi-Wan’s face. “What if I _burned it away?_ What if I told you how _proud_ I was to be your padawan, to be yours, and then I burned you alive? And I watched – and watched – and you _WATCHED – “_

 

Vader picked Obi-Wan up by the neck and threw him across the room, leaving the Jedi rolling on the floor, coughing and gasping. Vader approached, slowly, seeking blood.

 

Obi-Wan pulled himself to his feet. “What if I took everything from you, Vader? Your life? Your _purpose?”_

 

Vader stepped forward and punched – Obi-Wan just barely dodged it, and Vader’s hand plunged into the metal. He tore it out with a growl, revealing a massacre of sparking wires and mangled steel.

 

_That’s not human,_ Piett thought, _that’s not normal – not right –_

 

He patted Luke’s back, trying to get the wailing child to quiet down.

 

_“YOU DID!”_ Vader screamed. _“That is exactly – “_

 

“You destroyed my home!” Obi-Wan screamed. “My _brother!”_

 

“You,” Vader said, voice frigid, “are the one who left him to _die.”_

 

Obi-Wan flinched backward.

 

Vader turned away, pried Luke from Piett’s arms, and disappeared into the cockpit.

 

Piett let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding; the oppressive iciness seemed to dissipate. His fingers were numb.

 

There was a thump; Obi-Wan slid to the floor.

 

Piett looked him over, searching for a lightsaber or blaster. But his hands were as empty as his eyes.

 

He could see a bitter tale spin, in his mind’s eye; Vader, the brutal murderer of Obi-Wan’s beloved brother.

 

But where did that leave the _Skywalker_ of the story?

 

 “Are you alright?” Piett asked. It was harsh-edged, but it must have sounded soft compared to Vader’s hissy baritone.

 

“I’ll be fine,” Obi-Wan said, giving Piett a soft, but brittle smile. “You seem a little worried.”

 

“I have never seen Lord Vader that angry,” Piett said. “His temper is legend among those who work with him, but I have never – I have never heard of anything like that.”

 

Obi-Wan sighed. “Such is the way of the Sith.”

 

“Sith?”

 

“Users of the Dark Side of the Force,” Obi-Wan said. “They feed off of emotions like anger and hate, and crave nothing but power. They are pure evil.”

 

Piett shivered. Pure evil sounded like something that could have described Darth Vader; he killed without discrimination, destroyed with purpose, and laid waste to anything in his path.

 

But Piett could not forget the way he had cradled his son.

 

“Would you like to eat?” Piett asked, eyeing the way Obi-Wan’s shoulder blade poked through his robes and pressed against the steel wall. It was too sharp a line.

 

“I should,” Obi-Wan said. He didn’t sound enthusiastic.

 

Piett made for the storage anyway. He opened the door and tugged the lid off of one of the crates; Vader hadn’t been wrong. The shuttle was well-stocked for an emergency situation, just in case the Hutts had received them less than kindly.

 

“What would you like, sir?” Piett asked.

 

“It’s Obi-Wan,” the Jedi said. “Surprise me, Piett.”

 

Piett, privately, felt amazed that the Jedi had bothered to remember his name. He plucked out one that was supposed to be a Nubian specialty mash and the accompanying flash of water.

 

He passed it off to Obi-Wan, who had moved to sit cross-legged. Once, it might have been regal – now, he looked like an emaciated bird perching on a ledge that was far too high.

 

Obi-Wan didn’t move to prepare the meal. “I am deeply sorry that you are… wrapped up in this.”

 

Piett dipped his head. “It’s – not entirely terrible.”

 

Obi-Wan chuckled, dry and weak. “Not yet, my friend. Not yet.”

 

They lapsed into silence, where the Jedi slipped into a meditative pose and Piett fidgeted on his seat.

 

“Uh, sir?”

 

Obi-Wan blinked open an eye. “Call me Obi-Wan.”

 

“If I may,” Piett said. “I – you did say that, that child, he’s – “

 

“The son of Anakin Skywalker,” said Obi-Wan. “The man who claims him is nothing but a shell of who he used to be.”

 

Piett bit his lip as a thought occurred to him. “Do you mean to imply that – “

 

“Vader was once Anakin Skywalker?” Obi-Wan finished. “Yes. But _my_ Anakin is long, dead and gone.”

 

“You’re – you’re related!?” Piett sputtered.

 

“No,” Obi-Wan said. Piett wiped his sweating palms on his pants leg - that had been close. “I was his Jedi Master. I raised him.”

 

“Most of the men assume he spawned, fully-formed, from the darkness of space,” Piett said, caustic.

 

"They are not wrong," said Obi-Wan.

 

Piett shifted, deeply uncomfortable.

 

Obi-Wan stared at him a few seconds longer, and then said, “What is it like, working for him?”

 

“His method is nothing personal,” Piett said. “He punishes failure. He doesn’t tolerate incompetency.”

 

“He kills them, doesn’t he?”

 

Piett nodded. Obi-Wan cursed beneath his breath.

 

In the quiet, Piett reached forward and set about preparing Obi-Wan’s portion for him.

 

“You don’t have to do that,” Obi-Wan said, feebly trying to take the packet back.

 

“It’s not a problem – Obi-Wan,” Piett said. He quietly passed back the bowl of mash, and the plastic spoon that came with it.

 

Obi-Wan took a hesitant bite, and then seemed to realize that he was starving, because he shoveled it into his mouth.

 

After he was done, he leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. “That was better than I expected.”

 

“It’s rather depressing when you start enjoying military-issue rations, isn’t it?” Piett said, with a small, hesitant smile.

 

“Where do you come from, Piett?” Obi-Wan asked.

 

Piett scowled - he'd never liked this question. “The Outer Rim. Axxila.”

 

“You have a Coruscanti accent,” Obi-Wan said.

 

“Just something I picked up,” Piett said.

 

Obi-Wan didn’t reply for a long time. When Piett looked at him next, his head was balancing on his shoulder, moving with every breath.

 

Piett whistled through his teeth. That had to be the most uncomfortable position to fall asleep in Piett had ever seen.

 

A part of him whispered _traitor,_ but Piett rummaged through the crates in the storage holds until he came up with enough blankets to build Obi-Wan a bed.

 

He wondered what he would do when Vader emerged from the cockpit – how he would explain. He was aiding and abetting a traitor to the Empire, and someone who had hurt Lord Vader. There was no way to justify his actions.

 

When he came back, Obi-Wan’s eyes were fluttering beneath his lids, and his skin was pale and sticky with sweat. Piett dutifully laid the blankets out.

 

He worried for a minute about whether or not he should wake the man up or just move him onto the pallet. Eventually, he simply nudged the man into place and draped a thin sheet over him.

 

He watched the Jedi, for a moment. He could get by with the excuse that he feared Obi-Wan was ill, and illness was not a good idea in such a small space. He might even survive.

 

It would have to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vader is throwing up his feelings everywhere. If you don't stop broadcasting your human disaster issues, Piett's going to get frostbite. Stupid Force. And Obi-Wan's snarky mouth, while funny, is going to get him pulverized. He might seem a bit of a dick right now, but we're about to dive headfirst into the Obi-Wan Kenobi Sympathy Parade. Star Wars is pain and that pain is _coming for you._
> 
> All that aside, I do hope it was at least nominally in-character. I'm praying to Uncle George that I haven't made a mess of his perfectly reasonably created characters, and I also hope that he never ever sees the mess I've created here.
> 
> The next chapter, we catch up with everyone's favorite cinnabun baby, Luke, and my (admittedly self-servicing) reasoning behind why this kid has morals is explained. And he's really cute the whole time, I promise. It'll be worth it. I've given you guys no reason to trust me with the characters you know and love, in fact I've done the opposite, but _just trust me._


	3. Commander Sunshine Deserves Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vader is _trying,_ okay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about the wait - just. It got away from me.
> 
> This chapter is so mopey, because I wrote the bulk of it today, and my sister moved away yesterday - we're super close, and it's been all-around depressing, and I am _moping._ So everyone's sad in this chapter, okay? Just roll with it. It's also a short chapter. LET ME LIVE
> 
> It's also relatively unedited, because this is basically a filler chapter. Nothing _fun_ happens. The Obi-Wan Kenobi Sympathy Parade must wait until another day.

Vader paced the short distance of the cockpit, cloak snapping at his heels.

 

His son sat in one of the auxiliary chairs, pinning him with a soul-searching stare. Strangely, Vader felt as if his son saw through him. An uncomfortable weight settled beneath his skin - but it was familiar.

 

“Do not look at me that way,” Vader snapped, but the words were empty.

 

Luke gave a great, involuntary shudder, and for a moment, Vader was convinced he’d broken him. He was by the child’s side in an instant, his hands hovering over the boy’s skin, probing for a break – a shatterpoint –

 

The boy gave another shudder, blinking up at Vader with huge eyes. In that moment, there was a different angel in front of him, gasping for breath.

 

Panic settled in, beneath guilt, and Vader tapped at their bond. It was bumbling, naïve and new, but it was precious; more precious than anything. He reached into it.

 

A sense of cold flooded him, like he’d been doused in ice water. Hard jerks pulled at the wires wrapped around his bones. 

 

“You are cold,” Vader said.

 

Vader looked down at his own hands, and remembered. Not too long ago, he’d been on the surface of Orto Plutonia, establishing Imperial occupation. In truth, they had come to investigate alleged reports of kyber crystal stores beneath the permafrost; but that was a fact the public need not know.

 

Years ago, he’d been entranced by the falling snow; the mere idea that it could get cold enough, that there was enough water, was enchanting. Incredible. It was a feeling that didn’t wear off easily, and Vader remembered the hard lurch of his heart, the instinct that murmured, _watch your water, Ani._

He’d expected it to freeze flush to the metal and leather, a testament to how a child of the sun had burned out. To the ashes left behind. Instead, the snowflakes melted as soon as they made contact with the suit.

 

It had mystified him. There was warmth in him.

 

Vader – tentatively – wrapped a hand around Luke’s shoulders. It would be so easy to break him, snap him. The Dark Side coiled itself in ignorance and impressionism, and his son was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and weak-boned.

 

Vader pulled the child into his arms, reaching across their bond. Luke was still cold, still shivering, even if Vader couldn’t feel it through ten layers of armorweave. Luke curled into him – his child had no fear of death – and his presence evened out.

 

He stilled, as if Luke were a great predator who might bite if provoked.

 

In that moment, he’d never wanted to take his son and hide him away from his Master more. An unnamable wave of emotion crashed over him; the need to throw Luke behind him and sweep his lightsaber through the shadows, rattled the Force. The walls shook.

 

Luke stirred, and Vader cursed himself.

 

His son leaned back, blinking up at Vader. He waved.

 

“You have already greeted me today,” he said.

 

Luke pressed a finger against the top corner of the respirator, and said, solemnly, “Hi.”

 

A sharp prick of curiosity made its way through the Force, coupled with earnest trust and longing.

 

 _Longing –_ Vader thought, and he dug deeper, receiving flashes of a man and a woman within Luke’s memory. The Larses. Later, they would pay – for now, Vader clutched his son to his chest. He was _triumphant._

 

“I am your father,” he said. It was more to himself than to the child, more an affirmation of the truth than a declaration. 

 

The Force sang with rightness, and whatever paranoid thoughts clawed at the sides of Vader’s mind fell silent and dead. It was  _right;_ this was destiny.

 

“Who,” Luke said, and he poked Vader’s pauldron. 

 

“I am your father,” Vader repeated, amused. Luke fisted his hand in Vader’s tunic and cocked his head.

 

There was a need, then, for his son to learn – for his son to know him as his father.

 

Vader sighed – the air whistled through the respirator grate – and tapped at their bond. With trepidation, Vader pulled his mental guards back, allowing some of his emotions to trickle through.

 

Luke gasped, and his head craned to stare into Vader’s mask. His son knew him.

 

“Father,” Vader said. “I am your father.”

 

Confusion rolled off of Luke. It was only natural; the concept of a father was foreign to the child. He was only a toddler, trying to understand a concept Vader himself couldn’t grasp.

 

Luke’s face pinched. “Fa… Fafa.”

 

 _He’s trying to pronounce it,_ Vader thought, in a sudden rush, warmth spreading through him like a beating sun.  _He's trying._

 

Luke felt Vader’s sudden outpouring of feeling, and he shrieked happily. “Fafa! Fafa!”

 

Perhaps he should have introduced himself with an easier word.

 

“Fafa,” Luke said, patting Vader’s arm almost.

 

“You like to... touch,” Vader remarked. It was a strange sensation – this was more physical contact than he’d had in the last two years. His skin felt strange, needled.

 

“Fafa,” Luke said. He stood in Vader’s arms, reaching up for the neck guard, and wrapping his tiny arms around it.

 

Vader stilled; he dared not move. “Do you want – higher?”

 

Luke braced his knee against the control panel; the fabric of his pants slid on the metal, and Vader caught him when he slipped.

 

“That is unwise,” Vader said. “Please cease.”

 

Luke huffed. Vader felt annoyance – and another, prickling feeling that Vader was old friends with.

 

Hunger. The boy was hungry. It was natural; this was normal for children.

 

Immediately, Vader made for the door; but he stopped just as suddenly. Luke fell back against his shoulder armor.

 

There was a danger.

 

The Force called to him, and told him that his old Master was asleep. _Old fool,_ Vader thought, _unwise to let his guard down. I should choke him in his sleep._

The Dark Side purred; _yes,_ he would throttle Kenobi in his sleep. He would steal his breath, his lungs, he would pull them out and lay him low. And the Master would learn.

 

Luke fidgeted; Vader had broadcasted his thoughts.

 

Vader let his breath cycle, and then he thought, _I will wait._

He stepped out of the cockpit, straightening his back. The cybernetic implants slithered beneath his skin, screaming in pain.

 

Piett snapped to attention, jumping out of his seat.

 

“At ease,” Vader rumbled, pleased at the display. Fear was almost akin to respect, and it was all he needed.

 

Piett relaxed, but only barely. Around him, boxes of supply kits were torn apart and neatly rearranged according to use. The Force shivered about them, out of worry, fear. Panic.

 

“What is your malfunction, Lieutenant?” Vader asked.

 

Piett’s eyes drew to his son. “There – I have no… _malfunction_ , my lord.”

 

Vader eyed the boxes. Vader was well-accustomed to nervous habits – the servomotors in his cybernetic fingers were mangled and broken, snapped into and out of place on a regular basis. He’d never been an anxious cleaner, though, however much Kenobi would have enjoyed it.

 

“Why is Kenobi at rest?” Vader rumbled. He kept his eyes on Piett, watching the way his focus frazzled the officer. Fear poured off of him.

 

 _Good_ , Vader thought, savagely. Fear would keep him at a distance – they would fear him, they would hate him, and loathe him, and they would never get close. Not again.

 

Then, the strangest thing happened; Piett’s fear disappeared. It left a shocking void, and Piett stood straight as a board and stared Vader in the eye. 

 

“He may be ill, my lord. It would be best for him to get over it quickly, in case it may pass to other members of the – _crew.”_

 

Vader fingers curled tighter around his wriggly son. Something about Piett’s stare unnerved him, but Vader ignored his prickling skin. “Indeed, Lieutenant.”

 

The fear had gone; it was like someone had stripped Vader of his armor.

 

A low, muffled moan cut through the tension like a vibroblade: _“_ You were the _chosen one…”_

Vader stiffened, but he didn’t move. His mind was a traitor fond of tricks, and he couldn’t trust it.

 

Piett, unbidden, walked – stiffly, like he wanted to move faster – to the Jedi’s side. Real, then.

 

Vader turned, slowly, as Obi-Wan cried out – unintelligible, but the Force whispered, “ _Take him back!”_

The words sunk in. _Take him back. Take him back. Take him - back. Take him. Take._

Behind the mask, Vader’s mouth twisted into a snarl, a rictus of betrayal. It only confirmed what he’d known since his life had been torn from him – Obi-Wan never cared in the first place. Obi-Wan would have sold him back into slavery without Qui-Gon’s nifty little demand. 

 

He had crawled on his hands and knees for this man's love, once upon a time, and he'd never _once_ given him a second glance. Obi-Wan would have given him away.

 

Rage funneled his vision, and Vader focused on the red lenses, and the fire consuming him.

 

 _You should have ignored him,_ Vader thought. He let it ring throughout the Force. _You will_ pay _for your error in judgement._

The only reply was a jerk from the Force, and a flood of sadness and regret from his former _Master._

 

Piett kneeled down, feeling Obi-Wan’s forehead. “I don’t think he’s running a fever, my lord, but he might be in danger of it.”

 

“He will suffer,” Vader said, clenching his empty hand. The wrecked joints whined. “He will _know.”_

Piett glanced at him, curiously. There was something he wanted to ask, but he thought better of it as frost gathered on the steel floors.

 

“F-fafa,” Luke stammered.

 

And it was over.

 

Vader’s sense rushed to his son, checking the child over – the cold hadn’t crawled back, to his relief.

 

But, yet, fear had crawled in. Luke wasn’t cradled in his arms – he was _cowering_ in them.

 

Vader’s heart hammered, beating a litany of, _I can only hurt him, it will be better if I am gone -_

 

Using the Force, Vader tapped at their bond, beautiful as it was, and thought of regret. Of - _love._

 

Luke seemed to understand the vague feeling, but the wariness in his eyes didn’t fade. Vader cursed himself.

 

But something, very small and integral, was thankful that the child hadn’t let him go.

 

“I will take my leave,” Vader said, using the Force to float a ration packet, a water bottle, and several blankets into his free arm. “Be sure the Jedi does not perish. I will _not_ have my son exposed to a rotting corpse.”

 

The threat hung in the air.

 

Piett swallowed, and fear tickled Vader’s spine, but it dissipated quickly. “Yes, my lord.”

 

Vader turned on his heel, and disappeared into the cockpit.

 

He settled Luke into the auxiliary chair, draping the blankets over him. He cracked open the ration packet and added half a bottle of water – far too much.

 

It had been his diet as a child on Tatooine – regular food, with added bantha milk to make it edible for children. It was the diet of every poor desert rat, of every low class grunt in the galaxy; it was not for his son.

 

Children followed the mother. His son should be living better than this.

 

Vader mixes it with a spoon, ending up with a crude-looking mash. Luke eyed him, curled in the chair. Leaning away.

 

He wondered if it was normal for children to be so perceptive, so quiet.

 

He wanted to say something to placate the child, but found that he had nothing to say. There was no defending himself – he was laid bare, left for a childish sense of right and wrong to judge him.

 

“You must eat,” Vader said, to fill the silence.

 

Luke blinked. “Fafa.”

 

Behind the mask, Vader might have entertained a smile. “Your pronunciation leaves much to be desired.”

 

Vader kneeled before his son. The movement tore at the puckered sores in his flesh, but he did it anyway. The plastic spoon was awkward in his hands as he raised it for Luke to eat.

 

This – this was how it was done, if memory served him. But memory did not often serve him; there were huge, blank spots where there should have been events, people, memories.

 

Luke took the spoon from him, and ate – messily – on his own.

 

Affronted, Vader leaned backward.

 

“It was… strange, now that I think about it,” Vader said, dryly. Luke missed his mouth, smearing the paste across his cheek.

 

“Your aim will improve,” Vader said.

 

Luke’s next attempt left dribble on his chin. “Maybe,” Vader amended. “You may just be more talented at lightsaber forms than starfighter combat, my son.”

 

Luke smacked himself in the teeth with the spoon, and then looked extremely amused at the sound it made.

 

“Do not break a tooth,” Vader admonished.  _Do not hurt yourself._  “It is not pleasant.”

 

On Luke’s next try, Vader grabbed his elbow, and gently guided Luke’s hand to his mouth.

 

“Perhaps you need to accept help,” Vader said, as Luke glared at him with two-year-old ire.

 

“Bad Fafa,” Luke said, dropping the spoon and crossing his arms. “Mean Fafa.”

 

_He knows already._

 

“I do not know what you expect,” Vader said. “Not everyone is as idealistic as you, little one.”

 

Luke stared at him, uncomprehendingly. “Is mean.”

 

“I am not nice,” Vader said. Amusement – and a deeper, more intense feeling – flooded him.

 

Luke darted forward, snatched Vader’s index finger, and pulled his father’s arm close to his body. Vader lurched with the movement, huffing.

 

“Fafa,” Luke said, cuddling Vader’s arm.

 

“I have need of that,” Vader said.

 

“No,” Luke said. Vader wished Luke was closer to his flesh limb, so he could feel what little of his son’s warmth would drift past the armor.

 

Grumbling, Vader re-settled himself on the ground, resigned to Luke’s hold.

 

“You are strangely insistent.”

 

Vader received no reply but a soft snore.

 

It seemed he would be here for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, toddler!Luke is actually based off of my experiences with my cousin, Haven. I promise you I'm not pulling these crazy kid behaviors out of thin air. Toddlers _do_ this - it's crazy. It's freaking wild, guys. He's a scared child and all he knows is that the Big Man loves him, so, CUDDLES IT IS.
> 
> EDIT: Okay, so the headcanon for Anakin breaking his fingers came from themoosejthm on Tumblr, who got it from flaminganakin on Tumblr. They're both AMAZING.
> 
> Again, another hard chapter to beat out because it's pretty much directionless - like, the entire point of this chapter is to establish a budding relationship between Vader and Luke. Beyond, "what the _fuck_ is this guy holding me so much for," and, "SON SON SON SON SON SON." Because, as you guys can tell, Luke's innocence is having a profound effect on our guy Vader - but in order for some people (Obi-Wan) to survive the coming storm, Luke's going to have to be a lot more than a vague idea of a child to Vader. 
> 
> So the ridiculous fluff is entirely necessary. Almost. So what if it's self-indulgent DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT


	4. Obi-Wan Sleeps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan... my pal...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rushed the end, not gonna lie. Don't expect great things from me.

As far as Obi-Wan’s dreams went, the image of the dilapidated Jedi Temple was not uncommon. Frequently, he saw it in his mind’s eye; fallen to ruins, covered in graffiti, an ancient and cultural hub reduced to broken rock and stone. Rotting corpses – some, small children – scattered in the halls. It smelled like vultures and cravens.

 

Sometimes, he dreamed of it pristine. Whole. Filled to the brim with glowing Force signatures, each one of them warm, brushing against him and greeting him – an old war horse come back at last. He dreamed of home.

 

But he never, not once, not ever, dreamed of it like this.

 

It was dark. Everything was twisted, mocking every ideal the Jedi stood for; shame permeated every corner. This was not a place of peace, or kindness. Horrible, awful things happened here, words that should never be breathed.

 

Obi-Wan was horrified. Scandalized, even, as he walked the hallowed halls of a place he almost recognized. He crept around the corners like a spooked bantha, peering down long, dark hallways that spoke of suffering and guilt.

 

It took him ages to get to the center of it all. He regretted searching in the first place.

 

Every hallway, every pooling dark line, fed into a steaming lake of blood at the very heart of an institute of peace. Long, echoing ripples rolled away from the figure at the center – a man in all black.

 

A painfully familiar man.

 

Obi-Wan stopped, his heart hammering. His pulse thundered and roared.

 

He watched the man – Anakin, that was _Anakin_ out there – struggle. Thick, silver chains were coiled several inches thick around his wrists, and it was clearly an effort just to drag them above the lapping waves. Across the burned, hollowed out cavern, Obi-Wan could hear Anakin’s grunts of pain and exhaustion – they turned, occasionally, to half-aborted screams.

 

It occurred to Obi-Wan, after a few minutes of dully watching his padawan suffer, that Anakin was trying to escape something.

 

The man’s movements became frantic, sharp. He braced his feet beneath the tide and leaned back, straining against the bonds, leaning so far backwards that his hair came up tipped in red. Anakin tried again, pulling at all four sides, struggling through the thick liquid, raging against the waves.

 

Obi-Wan winced at the sounds Anakin’s fighting was creating – blood didn’t sound like water. When the waves crested and slapped, it was wet, and syrupy, and it made Obi-Wan want to vomit.

 

Watching Anakin fight a losing battle unsettled something, deep within Obi-Wan, and he nearly waded into the fray to fight with him.

 

But Anakin’s efforts became deranged. He tilted his head back and howled, jerking as his chains; mixed screams and laughter rang about the cavern. He pulled so hard Obi-Wan could hear the pop as his shoulders dislocated, the snap as he shattered an elbow.

 

For all he could hear such disgusting, gruesome details, he couldn’t hear whatever Anakin’s frothy lips were shouting. He could see blood-stained teeth, chapped and burned skin, foam gathering at the corners like Anakin was some rabid animal - but no words came. He suffered in silence.

 

That’s when the shadow came.

 

A dark figure marched slowly forward, from behind Anakin, exactly opposite Obi-Wan. Small, unassuming, crackling with power and the clink of collars, glinting with sick eyes. He came like pestilence, like plague.

 

Anakin never saw him coming. The shadow drowned him, and the last thing Obi-Wan saw were bubbles pouring from Anakin’s lips, and Obi-Wan heard him for the first time:  _from my point of view, the Jedi are evil._

_-_

The silence was deafening.

 

Obi-Wan had awoken, and – to his deep embarrassment – discovered that Firmus had given him blankets and made him a nice sleeping pad. He appreciated the effort, but, at the same time, he had once been a general in the Grand Army of the Republic. He could take care of himself.

 

He avoided Firmus’s sharp gaze, and spent his time meditating.

 

He was unsuccessful. Vader’s presence on the ship was like a dark, cold dragon sleeping beneath them; every so often, it would twitch and a rumble would pass through the Force. Obi-Wan would stiffen, quiet his meditation, and wait for whatever great storm hung above him to move along.

 

Stars know, his body still ached from Vader’s violence earlier. He hadn’t expected the sheer force, the power that Vader used, even on matters of the physical. It disconcerted him – no Force-user should fight with their bare hands. It was uncivilized. Barbaric, animalistic. Frothing-at-the-lips, painted in blood.

 

It was effective, though; Obi-Wan rubbed his stomach with a wince.

 

As much as the altercation had hurt, the feeling of the hard prosthetics beneath the gloves hurt more. If he were to strip Vader of his padded leather gloves, he would find only steel – no kindness, no softness. Sharp, smooth metal, capable only of violence, now.

 

And Luke was in those hands.

 

Obi-Wan’s body offered a huge, jarring shudder. He could scarcely imagine the horrific things Vader could be doing, preparing and preening his son for a lifetime within the Dark.

 

The way Vader’s Force presence was behaving like an ocean – swelling, and then receding – told him that _something_ was happening. Vader was doing some unspeakable thing – Obi-Wan feared they were already bonded.

 

If they were, there was no corner of the galaxy Luke would be safe. Vader would find him. He would hunt, through thick and thin, Obi-Wan knew; they’d _lost._

 

He’d failed yet another child – yet another potential apprentice of his.

 

The failure stung, but not as much as the image of poor, sweet Luke in the hands of a merciless child murderer. If there was a chance, if there was a hope in hell, Obi-Wan would _have_ to take it – for the brother that had died two years ago.

 

Obi-Wan was kicked out of his thought process when Vader’s Force presence thrummed, like a purring cat, and a breath of _warmth_ tickled Obi-Wan.

 

It was shocking enough for Obi-Wan to gasp, and Firmus’s alarm rang out like a bell.

 

_Warmth._

 

“I’m fine, Firmus,” Obi-Wan said, somewhat annoyed. The man was anxious, to say the least.

 

“I doubt that,” Firmus snorted. “You look like death.”

 

Obi-Wan could have rolled his eyes.

 

Not that he didn’t resemble death, of course – he most likely did. He hadn’t had a drink in – it had been almost a day, hadn’t it? It had to have been. Otherwise the tremor in his hands, the clamminess, the weight on his shoulders wouldn’t be there.

 

There was an aching thirst in the back of his throat – he desperately needed a drink. This was the sort of situation that just _required_ alcohol. He couldn’t be faulted for his hunger for it now; surely, not.

 

His veins hummed; he needed it.

 

“Firmus,” Obi-Wan said, licking his chapped lips, “I was wondering.”

 

“Hm?” Firmus said, looking up from where he twiddled his thumbs. “Yes, sir?”

 

“Would there be any – drink onboard?”

 

He felt sick - dirty - just asking. Ashamed, really. But the words were out before he could stop them.

 

Firmus barked out a laugh. “No, no. Not on Lord Vader’s ship.”

 

Obi-Wan narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”

 

“It’s a well-known fact – Lord Vader does not appreciate alcohol in the least,” Firmus said. “He’s been known to, ah, demote officers caught with it in possession, specifically those in Death Squadron.”

 

Obi-Wan snorted. “Death Squadron?”

 

Firmus nodded. “The Fist of the Empire. Only the best.”

 

“Only the best,” Obi-Wan repeated. He thought of Anakin – of Anakin’s arrogance, long given way to superiority. He thought of small, former slave who once told him that he was so very, very scared of failing anyone – he couldn’t ever, ever fail. Not a single person, not a one, never, ever, never, ever.

 

The boy used to speak of walking with them; _“If I can’t – can’t, I walk with ‘em. I go too.”_

 

Obi-Wan never learned what that meant. Mainly, because he’d leaned down, and grabbed the boy by the shoulder, and told him of the Jedi way.

 

Those very same blue eyes sparkled in front of him.

 

Before him, Anakin sat, cross-legged, a little boy with big dreams and a bigger mouth. “I walk with ‘em,” he said. “Y’don’t know what that means, but it’s okay. I’d walk with you.”

 

“Why?” Obi-Wan asked him. His eyes felt dry, itchy.

 

“Lord Vader only allows the best,” Firmus said.

 

Obi-Wan’s eyes snapped to the officer, and Anakin melted away like shadows in the sun. “Oh. Of course.”

 

Shock, dull, aching, and very old winded him; he’d been dreaming. Anakin, the boy with the blue eyes, was dead.

 

It wouldn’t have been the first time he'd dreamed with eyes wide open.

 

Firmus nodded, sharply. “Sir – would you consider, maybe, drinking something?”

 

“Brandy and tea,” Obi-Wan mused. A beatific expression came across his face. “My favorite. It has to be the right tea, from this little shop a block away from the Temple – “

 

“There is no temple,” Firmus said. “Stars, do you have a fever?”

 

“Of course not,” Obi-Wan said, cracking a grin. “I’m a Jedi Master.”

 

“That shouldn’t make you invincible,” Firmus said, sitting up. “Sir, allow me – “

 

Obi-Wan waved him off. “It does. Make you invincible, I mean. Nothing hurts a Jedi – except for their own.”

 

Firmus looked deeply uncomfortable. “Sir, please – “

 

Obi-Wan ignored him, and leaned his head against the cool, metal wall, taking a deep breath.

 

Nothing could hurt a Jedi – other than themselves. They were constant, until they weren’t.

 

For a moment, ten thousand Jedi sat beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder. A line of solidarity, a steel wall that would never crack, never crumble, a light that could never die; his friends, his family, surrounded him. They sat with him. His struggles were their crosses, too, and the beast in the other room could not withstand them all.

 

When Obi-Wan’s eyes opened, there were tears on his face. He didn’t brush them away – there was no reason to. His way of life was ash.

 

Ash and ruin. Ash and ruin – ash and _ruin_ –

 

“What if I told you,” Obi-Wan said, his voice rough and scratchy, “a story?”

 

Firmus’s eyes were narrowed, his head turned slightly to the side, questioning. “What kind of story?”

 

“Tragedy,” Obi-Wan answered.

 

“I never understood the reason people tell sad stories,” Firmus said.

 

“Why?” Obi-Wan asked.

 

“It only ever makes people upset,” Firmus said. “It’s not worth it.”

 

“Then let me give you a word of caution, if you won’t hear my tragedy,” Obi-Wan said.

 

Firmus nodded.

 

Obi-Wan leaned forward, pinning Firmus with cold, cold silver eyes. “I swear this on my life. These are truths I am beholden to; do you understand?”

 

Firmus swallowed, but he dipped his head.

 

“The machine in the cockpit is not alive.”

 

“Stop making loose wire jokes,” Anakin, a lean adult, whined. “It hurts Artoo’s feelings. Don’t do that.”

 

Firmus raised an eyebrow. “He’s more alive than I ever thought he was. He has a son, sir.”

 

“That child is from another time,” Obi-Wan said. “His father is dead. _That_ is a machine.”

 

“He – he didn’t stop existing because he – he – whatever he did,” Firmus said. “You can’t separate him from the crime!”

 

“I’m not,” Obi-Wan snapped. “Help me, Firmus. I need – I need help to do this. I can no longer do this on my own.”

 

Firmus blinked, and leaned back against the wall. “That’s treason.”

 

“Treason to a traitor,” Obi-Wan said.

 

Firmus’s eyes skittered to the cockpit’s door. “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

 

“The _Empire_ is wrong,” Obi-Wan snapped.

 

Firmus’s eyes glittered. “Watch what you say.”

 

“No,” Obi-Wan said. “The Empire will not make a slave of me.”

 

Firmus huffed out a breath – anger, light and breathy compared to the roar of Vader’s, danced in the Force. The man stood, pacing jerkily, before he whirled on Obi-Wan, waving his finger: “I understand that you’re sick, sir. You’re saying things you wouldn’t normally. I understand that. But _do not_ undermine my – “

 

“Your work is a sham,” Obi-Wan said. “It is a lie, an abomination – “

 

“You don’t understand,” Firmus said, deadly quiet. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’re a washed-up criminal.”

 

“Criminal,” Obi-Wan murmured, tasting the word. “I once masqueraded as a bounty hunter.”

 

Firmus scoffed, but said nothing. He flopped back into his seat and put his head in his hands.

 

“I’ll take that drink of water, please,” Obi-Wan said, almost cheekily.

 

Firmus got up, snagging a water bottle, and kneeled beside him. It made Obi-Wan feel like – like some invalid.

 

His hands were shaking when he took the bottle from the officer. After watching Obi-Wan struggle to open it for a minute, Firmus sighed, and opened it for him.

 

“Sir, I think – I think you’re ill,” Firmus said. “You’re pale as death.”

 

Obi-Wan coughed out a laugh. “I always said alcohol is a cure-all, but we don’t have any.”

 

Firmus frowned. “Er – alcohol is not – it’s – “

 

“It’s the cold,” Obi-Wan said, voice hard-edged.

 

“Liar,” Anakin hummed, twiddling his thumbs. “Liar, liar, best friend on fire.”

 

Obi-Wan choked on his swig of water. “Rest,” he said, hacking, “I need – I need rest.”

 

 _I need Vader to kill me in my sleep,_ he thought, distractedly. _It would make everything so much easier._

 

Luke still needed saving. Death was not an option.

 

It might have been a bad idea to sleep within a few feet of your greatest enemy, but Obi-Wan knew – logically – that he’d face Vader again. He could not be this. He had to save Luke, and he could not have quaking hands and a weak mind.

 

Firmus nodded, and he took the water bottle back and screwed the cap on. Fussily, the officer re-settled the blankets and – even as Obi-Wan tried to bat him away – tucked him in.

 

 _Embarrassing,_ Obi-Wan thought. _Even Jedi are laid low._

 

As Firmus backed away, he stopped, looked at Obi-Wan critically, and said, “I advise sleeping on your side.”

 

Obi-Wan, weak and thready as he was, had already fallen asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I TOLD YOU NOT TO EXPECT GREAT THINGS
> 
> This is mostly unedited. I got a little excited. I'M SORRY ALL I UPDATE WITH IS TRASH.
> 
> The only reason I managed to beat this out is thanks to flaminganakin on tumblr, who is a BLESSING, and for some reason thinks Coke is better than Pepsi. It's time to convert her. ;)


	5. Piett Needs A Vacation (that isn't this one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does the Empire cover heart medication? Because prolonged exposure to Force users _will_ send you into arrhythmia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'm trying to update pretty quickly. I _promise._ Truer words never spoken.
> 
> I apologize in advance, because this chapter's kinda ehhh?? to me. But they're all that way before I post them, and then usually people are like, "no you're good!" so I guess I don't have an objective view on my writing. Whatever that is.

Piett rubbed his mouth with a disposable napkin, scraping toothpaste off of his chin.

 

Through a beautiful stroke of luck, it turned out that the survival kits included basic hygienic supplies, which Piett had wasted no time in divvying up between himself and the Jedi. He’d considered splitting them up into thirds, but felt that Vader would be more insulted at the implication than anything else.

 

After he’d organized the supplies, and had an – _interesting_ – conversation with Obi-Wan, he’d dozed off in his chair and awoken several hours later. The crick in his neck persisted even after his desperate attempts to smooth it, and Piett resigned himself to it being one of those days.

 

He was surprised that he’d actually fallen asleep. He was already a bit of an insomniac, and the added presences of a traitor to the Empire and Darth Vader should have kept him on his toes; perhaps it was just how exhausting the previous day had been. Perhaps he’d even forgotten Vader was in the shuttle; the cockpit was so silent and unassuming that it jolted Piett to realize there was something alive in there.

 

He ducked out of the refresher, stepping politely over Obi-Wan, who snoozed on.

 

Piett – in spite of his loyalties – found himself worried about the old Jedi. It didn’t look like the man took care of himself, and Piett had his own sneaking suspicions about Obi-Wan’s illness.

 

He was sure it was related to drink. A part of him sneered at Obi-Wan for becoming dependent on such a drug, but yet another part of him felt that Obi-Wan may have had nothing else to turn to.

 

These thoughts were infuriating. There was a clear line between right and wrong, and the Jedi were on the opposite side of it. That was the order, and there was no questioning the order.

 

As much as he tried to shut down his line of thinking, he still got up to regularly check Obi-Wan’s temperature. After an hour, he considered waking the Jedi up and getting him to drink some water – he had no experience with withdrawals, but he knew water could only help. Especially if Obi-Wan continued to sweat as much as he was.

 

He was about to make his move when the cockpit door slid open, and Vader strode through it, a sleeping baby cuddled in his arms.

 

Piett snapped to attention as fast as he could, nearly falling over with the momentum of it.

 

“As you were,” Vader rumbled, noticeably quieter than his usual bullhorn volume. “What is the situation with the Jedi?”

 

The moniker implied a distant relationship, the direct opposite of Vader’s crazed ranting from the night before. Piett was beginning to get the sense that Vader couldn’t make up his mind.

 

Eyeing the toddler, Piett continued in a murmur, “His fever has not broken, sir.”

 

Vader tilted, so the child was turned away from Piett’s gaze. “Have you pinpointed a cause for his condition?”

 

_Does he think I’m a one-man medbay?_ Piett thought, somewhat irritated. It was irrational to be irritated with someone who would kill you with a thought, but after the barrage of revelations over the last twenty-four hours, Piett could not summon any fear at all. He was too exhausted.

 

“No, sir, nothing definite,” Piett said. He thought for a minute, and then carried forward, “But I do have reason to believe that he is going through… alcohol withdrawal.”

 

Vader stiffened, and then pulled himself higher, a towering shadow. The intimidation factor was somewhat offset by Luke, who chose that moment to give a tiny gasp, wrap his hand around Vader’s thumb, and snuggle deeper into his cocoon of blankets.

 

Vader’s stare was heavy, as if he dared Piett to comment on it. Piett held his tongue tight.

 

“I see,” Vader said. “A drunkard. How low you have fallen, Obi-Wan Kenobi. How _low.”_

Piett decided his earlier thought – that Vader should learn to make up his mind – was a true fact of the galaxy.

 

“Would you like me to continue – ah – treating him, my Lord?”

 

“If it reduces the time he is an aberration on the floor,” Vader said. With that, Vader floated a pillow out of the bin, turned on his heel, and left.

 

Piett watched him, perturbed. He wasn’t sure if he’d just watched Darth Vader come out of hiding to insult a Jedi and steal a pillow, or if there was some sort of hidden threat in the gesture. Whatever the experience was, Piett had a sneaking suspicion that he’d have a lot more of them.

 

After he’d assured himself that Vader wasn’t going to jump out from the shadows and scare the life out of him, Piett turned to attend to Obi-Wan.

 

Obi-Wan was twisting, muttering in his sleep, covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He looked pale and dirty, like a rat that had crawled out of a sewer.

 

Piett gently shook him awake. “Obi-Wan.”

 

Obi-Wan’s eyelids fluttered. “Anakin, please.”

 

The words sent an icy stake through Piett’s heart. “That is… not my name.”

 

Obi-Wan slapped Piett’s hand, rolling over. “Prepare for your katas… I’ll be awake in five minutes…”

 

“Frankly, I have no idea what that is,” Piett said. “I need you to wake up, Obi-Wan.”

 

“Anakin, no!”

 

The words came out as a screech, painful to hear, echoing off the walls. From the cockpit, Piett heard a dull thud, the whining of metal twisting, and then some alien noise, almost like radio static.

 

Piett, panicking, slapped a hand over Obi-Wan’s mouth, cutting off whatever the man had been about to say. Obi-Wan’s eyes flew open, but Piett shushed him, flicking his eyes to the cockpit.

 

They sat there, drawn together with heaving breaths, and watched the cockpit. It fell back into its silence; the storm passed.

 

Piett blew out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. “Thank the stars,” he said.

 

Obi-Wan spat out his hand, looking a little green. “What – what did I say?”

 

“You shouted something in your sleep. About – about Anakin,” Piett said.

 

Obi-Wan blinked, licking his lips. “He used to do that.”

 

Piett had never taken Darth Vader as someone who slept at all, much less cried out in his sleep; then again, he’d never taken Darth Vader as someone to father a child.

 

“I need you to drink some water,” Piett said. “Er – sir.”

 

“He used to call out in his sleep – for his mother. For Ahsoka,” Obi-Wan said. “Never for me.”

 

“I – don’t know those people,” Piett said, awkwardly. “I don’t – Obi-Wan, you need to drink something.”

 

Obi-Wan grabbed him, fisting his hands in Piett’s uniform. “He killed them! _He killed them!”_

 

Piett swallowed back acid; he knew Lord Vader was a horrible man, but he’d never even thought about what had happened to the Dark Lord’s parents. To find out that Vader had killed his own mother wasn’t surprising, but it was revolting.

 

_Yet he holds his son like a child would hold a ladybug_ , Piett thought. _Where is the line?_

Obi-Wan had broken down into tears now, horrible, awful sobs. Piett bit his lip, and after a moment, he pulled the Jedi to his chest and wrapped him in a hug.

 

_Traitor,_ he thought, scathingly, to himself. But there was something so sad about Obi-Wan Kenobi that he couldn’t help himself. Some great, profound suffering that drew pity from Piett like only abused animals could.

 

Even the best of men were laid low by empathy.

 

_“Luke,”_ Obi-Wan hissed. “I’ve failed him – I’ve failed us all – “

 

“I’m sure you haven’t,” Piett said, tightly, patting Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

 

“You don’t _understand,”_ Obi-Wan said. “He was the last hope – _you were the Chosen One_ – “

 

“I’m not the chosen anything,” Piett said. Too late, he realized that Obi-Wan wasn’t addressing him.

 

Obi-Wan pulled away, turning to face the wall. His eyes were fogged and unfocused. “You were my _brother!”_ he howled. “What have _you done!?”_  


Piett scrambled forward, wrapping his hand over Obi-Wan’s mouth, pinning him down. Obi-Wan struggled, but he was weak and fevered.

 

He held his breath, hoping – but hope was useless.

 

The ship gave a great, heaving shudder, and the metal under them cracked, splitting like an iceberg. A long, black line shot to the cockpit, the metal shaking and groaning; tendrils speared out across the floor.

 

They waited a moment. Two. Three.

 

Eventually, the shuttle stopped shaking. The metal stopped cracking. The air got warmer, but neither of them could breathe.

 

He’d expected Vader to reappear, to come back and rage at Obi-Wan for all the wrongs done; but, for once, the Empire’s death machine steadied its hand.

 

“I’m just experiencing all sorts of amazing things,” Piett said, dryly.

 

Obi-Wan rubbed the scarred durasteel, contemplating. “Do you believe him?”

 

“I – Vader?” Piett asked. Obi-Wan’s moods were shifting so fast he feared he was getting whiplash.

 

“He said he was proud,” Obi-Wan murmured, “to be my padawan. But he _hated_ me.”

 

Piett swallowed. “We say things we don’t mean when we’re, er, angry. You… never know.”

 

Obi-Wan had a dual quality to him, then; his words were calm and orderly, but he trembled so hard his unkempt hair shook, and his crawled over the ground like pale spiders, obsessing over the marred surface.

 

“How could he _care for me_ and still – and still destroy the Jedi Order?” Obi-Wan said. “There is no answer. Anakin _must_ be dead. He has to be.”

 

“But he’s not,” Piett said. “He’s in the other room.”

 

“That _beast_ is not Anakin,” Obi-Wan snarled. “Anakin is beside me.”

 

It didn’t make sense; if Piett took a DNA sample of Vader’s flesh (given that it _was_ there after all) it should match Anakin Skywalker’s. So why did Obi-Wan insist that he was dead?

 

“No, he’s not,” Piett said. “Why would you – _stars_ , Obi-Wan, please just drink some water.”

 

He offered Obi-Wan the bottle. When it became apparent that Obi-Wan could barely hold it, much less unscrew the cap, Piett took it and poured it down the Jedi’s throat.

 

Obi-Wan watched him with bloodshot eyes. The weight of the stare made Piett slightly uncomfortable.

 

“Thank you,” he said.

 

“Er, you’re welcome,” Piett replied, capping the water. The words were too soft, sincere. “Uh, as a general – general question, how much do you usually drink in a day?”

 

“Eight,” Obi-Wan said.

 

“Eight… whole drinks,” Piett said. “All eight.”

 

Obi-Wan nodded.

 

Piett swore. “Alcohol withdrawal. You’re going through alcohol withdrawal.”

 

He knew nothing about alcohol withdrawal. Axxila had been filled with pirates and criminals committed to drink, but he’d never witnessed a withdrawal. He’d never needed to; it was just useless medical information that was better in the hands of medical professionals.

 

He’d never expected to be trapped on a shuttle with a man suffering through it.

 

“I don’t know how to help you,” Piett said. “All I know is that – that you need water.”

 

“Water,” Obi-Wan smacked his lips. “They say, on Tatooine, to watch your water.”

 

“You have no idea what it means.”

 

Vader stood, silhouetted in the doorway, like some great creature wrought from the depths. He took a slow, measured step forward.

 

Piett tried to still his racing heart; he’d never thought Vader capable of sneaking up on someone, not with his massive bulk, but he’d done it. A creature of darkness indeed.

 

Luke was nowhere to be found – if they ignited Vader’s rage, there would be nothing to save them. Piett scrambled to attention.

 

Vader ignored him, his mask tilted towards Obi-Wan. “You have _no idea,_ my _former_ Master.”

 

“Sith,” Obi-Wan hissed, pulling himself to his feet. He swayed like a sapling in a fall storm, but Piett had to admire his strength of will.

 

Vader stepped forward, and grabbed Obi-Wan roughly by the jaw. The Jedi wriggled, attempting to get away, but Vader’s fist closed like a steel trap.

 

“What have I done, Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

 

“Put me down,” Obi-Wan spat. His thin, bony hands could barely wrap around Vader’s wrist – there was no way he could pry the gloved fingers away. The man was diminished.

 

“ _What have I done?”_ Vader asked, dangerously. He leaned forward, making use of his abominable height; the shadows stretched towards him, seeking kinship.

 

“You,” Obi-Wan choked out, half mad, spraying foam, “ _you_ destroyed the Jedi!”

 

“And you _are_ a Jedi,” Vader said. “You should _watch your water_ , Kenobi.”

 

With that, he dropped Obi-Wan, who hit the floor with a dull thud. The threat landed with him.

 

“A few small reminders,” Vader drawled, “for the duration of this trip: you will stay away from my son, or I will kill you, and the Lieutenant will sleep with your rotting corpse. Do not come near him.”

 

“You don’t deserve him,” Obi-Wan said, dragging himself up yet again; Piett was struck by the man’s resilience. Strike him down and he would stand up braver. “You will only ruin him, as the Emperor has ruined you!”

 

“The _Emperor_ is not who destroyed me,” Vader snapped. His voice was threateningly deep.

 

“Anakin was my _brother –_ I did not – _“_ Obi-Wan said.

 

“Liar,” Vader said. “A liar and a drunk, like every Master before you. And to think I considered you _different,_ Kenobi.”

 

Obi-Wan’s shoulders wilted. Shame radiated from his frame, frail, but ready to crawl through the coming storm.

 

“I would never lie,” Obi-Wan said. “Not about this.”

 

“You could lie about your own death and reap the rewards of those who mourned you,” Vader growled.

 

Obi-Wan then did something very, very courageous; he tilted his head back, and raised his chin. For the first time since Piett had met him, he could see the hallowed rites of the Jedi given life in this one man.

 

“Sometimes we do terrible things to the people we love,” Obi-Wan said. “I loved Anakin, and I hurt him. But you _killed_ him.”

 

“You make a mistake,” Vader said, softly. “I did not love Anakin Skywalker.”

 

Obi-Wan didn’t seem to have an answer to that. No one did. Piett had lost the plot of the entire conversation, and was drifting in a hopeless sea of confusion.

 

Vader pulled his shoulders back, jerking out of whatever state he had blundered into. “Do not touch my son. Keep your distractions to a minimum. Anything less than total compliance will earn your timely death.”

 

“Permission to speak, sir?” Piett asked.

 

“Continue, Piett.”

 

Piett worried his lip, choosing words in his mind. “My Lord, perhaps it would prevent further altercations if we – set ground rules.”

 

“Ground rules,” Vader repeated.

 

_If I get killed for this, Obi-Wan had better pray by my grave,_ Piett thought.

 

“Yes, sir. To make the trip go as smoothly as possible,” Piett said. On a whim, he added, “I believe peace benefits children greatly.”

 

“I will consider it,” Vader said. Piett counted it as a success – at least he’d tried to buy Obi-Wan some calm waters, even if Vader never considered the topic. He’d heard rumors of the Dark Lord’s curiously terrible memory. “What is the situation on Kenobi’s withdrawal?”

 

“I am currently in front of you as you speak,” Obi-Wan drawled. “I am open to questions.”

 

“If you are foolish enough to rely on drink, then you lose the privilege of taking care of your own health,” Vader said.

 

“You don’t care about my health.”

 

“I would rather not let my son sleep near a composing cadaver,” Vader snapped.

 

Sensing the building tension, Piett interrupted. “My Lord, I have little to no knowledge of alcohol withdrawal, so I cannot tell. But the situation seems to be – worsening.”

 

“I am still right here,” Obi-Wan grumbled.

 

“Silence,” Vader said, holding up his hand. “The current symptoms are not dangerous. In another day’s time, that will not be the case – there will be a period of extreme illness, perhaps lasting five days. Be prepared.”

 

_It would be nice to know what I’m looking for,_ Piett thought.

 

“And where did you learn this?” Obi-Wan asked, brow raised.

 

“I said _watch your water,”_ Vader rumbled. “I will give your suggestion due consideration, Lieutenant. Until then, do not disturb me unless you wish to die a very painful death.”

 

“Lord Vader -!”

 

As quickly as he came, Vader melted back into the dark. He paused by the doorway of the cockpit to pick up Luke, who had wandered to the doorway, hair fluffed from sleep.

 

“Fafa,” the child squeaked, fisting his hands into Vader’s tunic. The door slid shut before anything more could be revealed.

 

“I would have liked to know what dangerous symptoms I was looking for,” Piett said.

 

“I would have liked to be included in a conversation about me,” Obi-Wan said. “Don’t be like that.”

 

Piett turned to the Jedi, who slumped in a bucket seat. “Don’t be like what?”

 

“Nothing,” Obi-Wan said, quickly.

 

Piett sighed. He wondered if the Empire would compensate him for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked it! I am trying to update faster, mainly because I want to get to the good stuff (the Vader Pain Train pulls in after the Obi-Wan Kenobi Sympathy Parade, and we all know Vader is my area of expertise) but also consider that life: sucks. But I do try.
> 
> Tell me what you thought!


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